Page 79 of Slots & Sticks
“I can handle it, Dottie.” Coach reaches out with his free hand to pat her hair. With the other, he grips the cane that’s been keeping him upright. “I’m sure that Camden won’t make me walk home if I tell him I need to pick up a prescription on the way back.” To me, he adds, “As far as I know, I don’t.”
“But if you did, it wouldn’t be a problem.” It’s hard to hold the man’s gaze for any period of time. After all, I’m sleeping with his daughter, and we’ve never talked about my intentions, or even told him outright that we’re dating. It’s one of the reasons I want to talk this morning.
In the two weeks since he’s been home, Coach has started to look so much like his old self that I can’t quite wrap my headaround it. There are scars on the lower half of his face and on his neck that stand out in shiny streaks, but they don’t have to be bandaged anymore. His hair, which had to be shaved off, is growing back in. He’s lost weight, and his eyes… His eyes are different. He’s not the same man he was at the end of last season, and never will be.
I get why Dot’s so worried about being there for him, and why she doesn’t want to leave him in the hands of a stranger even though she does sometimes. He’s healing physically, but he’s fragile in a way that hurts to see.
“I’ve got this, Dot.” I rub her arm. “I’ll bring him back safe and sound. You should take the morning to relax. I hear there’s a new book out in that series you like.” I raise my eyebrows significantly. I may or may not have bookmarked the sexy audiobook that she played in our hotel-from-Hell.
“Ooh.” She nibbles her thumbnail. “Well, if you’re sure…”
“Hey!” From his cattycorner yard, Cash waves his arm above his head. “You kids need a hand gettin’ that geezer in the front seat?”
“You’re older than I am!” Coach calls back.
“True.” Cash sighs and presses his hands to his back with an exaggerated groan. “That’s why we keep these young guys around, with their good backs. Camden, stop messing around and help Ranger get in the car.”
“Yes, sir.” I move toward Coach to offer my assistance. He waves my hands away, so I stay close without touching him, doing a sort of awkward body-block in case he falls.
It’s a good thing I do. When he’s got one foot halfway into the front seat, he wobbles and starts to tip sideways. I catch his arm before he can fall.
Coach sucks in a breath and closes his eyes.
“Sorry,” I say, even as I help guide him into the seat. “Did I hurt you?” There are scars on his arms, too, though they don’t stand out as much as the ones on his face.
He huffs an embarrassed laugh. “Only my pride.”
“See?” I smile back at Dot. “We’re good.”
“It’s fine for today,” she says.
“It’s fine every day. Family first, right?”
Dot blinks at me. “Uh, okay?”
I ease the door shut, making sure not to shut Coach in. He gives me a thumbs-up.
“We’ll see you later,” I tell Dot. “Enjoy your book.” I’d love to give her a lingering kiss, but I guess we’re not doing that in her dad’s presence, which is probably for the best right now. On top of the general awkwardness of theHey, Coach, I’m banging your daughter conversation, we’re going to be cutting it pretty close. I settle for a single beep of the horn and an enthusiastic wave. Dot waves back.
We don’t even reach the end of the street before Coach addresses the elephant in the car. “Is there something you need to tell me, Camden?”
I keep my eyes on the road and hope the warmth in my face doesn’t give me away. “Sir?”
He snorts. “Really? Ten seconds ago, we were family.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. Then I clear it again. I’m not sure where to start, especially not with a guy who’s known me since I was in diapers. “Well…”
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Dot,” he offers.
“Yes. You’re right. That’s a good start. I’d like to spend all of my time with Dot.”
Coach laughs. “Yeah, I picked up on that. Years ago, in fact.”
“Years?” I repeat. How the hell did Coach figure me out before Dot did? Although I guess dads are notorious for keeping an eye on the boys who pay special attention to their daughters.
“Dot told me about what used to happen at her lemonade stand. I’ve known ever since then that you loved my daughter.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “She has a lot of her mother in her.”
The image hits me so fast it’s like time folds in on itself. Dot at ten years old, hair in crooked pigtails, standing behind her crooked cardboard stand at the end of the block. Her handwriting on the sign—Lemonade, 50¢—looked like a ransom note, and she had glitter glue on her elbows from some other project she’d abandoned halfway through.
